


Silent Night

by hotlegfryegg



Category: VALORANT (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Fluff and Angst, M/M, You guys asked for this, merry whatever kids, so here it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:33:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28206897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotlegfryegg/pseuds/hotlegfryegg
Summary: Sometimes the greatest gift is a little peace and quiet.
Relationships: Cypher & Nora (VALORANT), Cypher/Omen (VALORANT)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 53





	Silent Night

Bodies lay everywhere around the room, sagged across each other at awkward angles. Some even still twitched amongst the debris. A puddle of red seeped over the lip of a table, only the occasional drip to suggest time wasn’t standing still. Almost every member of the Valorant Protocol was incapacitated, leaving only Omen to survey the carnage left behind.

Needless to say, spiking the punch was the best idea to ever have emerged from Breach’s concussion-addled brain. Headquarters hadn’t been this quiet in months.

And for once, it wasn’t the kind of quiet that threatened Omen with the overbearing pressure of existence. Soft noises filtered through the air, and those were different, too—in place of the usual shuffling of weapons and gear and the cloying gravity of war, they were… peaceful.

Raze, snoring into the stolen sleeve of Killjoy’s jacket as she napped against Breach on the floor. The fireplace, mostly snuffed, but smouldering enough for the occasional crackle. The music barely came through the speakers, long having been sloppily cranked down by a drunken Brimstone on his way to passing out across the couch. Even the drip of Phoenix’s spilt drink, long forgotten in front of the mistletoe as he stumbled down the hall in pursuit of his partner.

Between the dim glow of the string lights, the dying fire, and all the white noise, Omen felt… comfortable?

Was that what this was? He didn’t feel like he was falling apart, like an unravelling knit of space. In fact, he was pleasantly warm, and his limbs each held weight and the purpose of existence. He was settled into one of the plush leather chairs by the hearth, half-tucked under the quilt he’d just seen Sova gift to Reyna at their little exchange (“to warm your cold heart, you witch”, to which she only cackled in response). While Omen couldn’t stomach much food, he’d managed to partake in a bit of the potluck dinner offered by the menagerie of capable cooks, and he was sated. Warm. Tired, but not exhausted.

Comfortable.

The very thought should have scared him, but it didn’t. Omen should be terrified of complacency, normalcy, comfort. Comfort is supposed to be impossible. Dead men aren’t comfortable.

… Was he sure he’s dead if he felt like this?

Somewhere across the room, he heard Viper groan and roll over, and after a moment of searching spotted where her feet protruded from under the bright green tablecloth. Sage had quite literally drunk half the agents under the table, her own legs accompanied several others (only some with shoes on) poking out from under the ransacked cookie buffet. The number of empty bottles scattered across most horizontal surfaces probably would have shocked or disgusted anyone else. Omen chortled quietly, almost excited for watching the inevitable hangover to hit en masse when the weight against his leg shifted.

Ah.

Cypher was awake.

“Mmn… somebody’s happy,” the man half-whispered against Omen’s knee. Without his hat, Cypher cut a strange figure indeed, although that strangeness was taken up another notch by the hideous blue wool sweater he’d worn in lieu of his usual gear. Sans his heavy white coat and high collar, Omen would almost think his teammate had physically _shrunk_.

The mask was still present, though. Come to think of it, had Omen even seen Cypher drink tonight?

“... You can’t see my face.” His voice stayed low, a soft rumble of thunder in the sea of sleeping mercenaries.

Cypher wrapped a hand lazily around Omen’s knee, rolling his head just so to mush a soft cheek against the wraith’s leg. “Don’t have to,” he purred, “can feel it. Feel you. S’nice.”

The absent brush of a thumb against his knee sent a shiver through Omen—not quite of repulsion, but he can’t wholly be sure. “You are drunk.”

The surveillant let out a wheezing laugh. “Yesssss, I am, and you’re not. I wish you could, I bet you’d be a good drunk with me. We could... drink together.”

“You told me drinking was bad for your neural implants. Verbatim, ‘my eyes constantly recalibrate and make me sick’.” Omen tugged his leg slightly, gauging whether or not he could free himself.

Cypher’s face followed the motion, still pressed into the other’s knee. “They don’t know that,” he pouted.

Omen would have deadpanned if he still had the capacity. “Your eyes don’t know that you’re drunk.”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

The apertures in Cypher’s eyes flicked shut once, then twice, then halfway shut. “ _Fuck_ ,” he hissed under his breath.

“Go back to sleep, fool.” Perhaps he could have tried to wait, lull Cypher into his own drunken stupor and freed himself then.

It would have been much, much easier if Cypher didn’t instead wobble to his knees, swipe the quilt around himself, and proceed to plant himself partway into Omen’s lap.

The wraith froze, tension seeding through him like a rubber band pulled taught. “ _What are you doing_ ,” he hissed.

This did not phase Cypher in the least, as he wiggled and pushed to try and slot himself into the sliver of the empty chair at Omen’s side.

“You will not _fit,_ imbecile _,_ ” the ghost snarled again.

Cypher paused, but rather than make a sensible choice like _leave_ or _stop_ , turned himself, threw his legs over the arm of the chair, and reclined right into Omen’s lap once again. Settling an arm across the wraith’s shoulders, Cypher let out a sigh far too contented for a man in his position.

Omen seethed. “ _I hate you_ ,” he spat, claws scratching against the leather of the armchair.

Cypher ignored him again, pressing his head into the crook of the other man’s shoulder. “Make you a deal. Be my pillow for a minute… and I’ll tell youuu—“ he taps a finger against Omen’s faceplate where a nose might have been “—a secret.”

“No.”

“Too late.” Cypher nestled himself in further, drawing the quilt up around his legs and angling his head closer to his cohabitant’s hood. “I was… muslim. Back before,” he whispered, waving a hand noncommittally, “before, when I th-thought there was a god. Could be a god.”

This… actually intrigued Omen. “You don’t think so anymore?”

Cypher shook his head slightly. “Too cruel. Nothing sentient could be this _awful_.” He paused to swallow once, twice. “S’ not the secret.”

“I’m… sorry. Please, continue.”

Cypher’s eyes fixated just past Omen, and the wraith could hear the quiet clicks of the apertures recalibrating again. “N… Nora… loved Christmas,” he said softly, as if saying her name to someone else was a sin. “She was muslim too, and she actually prayed sometimes. I didn’t. I was _terrible._ ” He shifted, angling himself even further around Omen, drawing one leg back into the chair. “But oh, my Nora _loved_ Christmas like nothing else. Every December she’d find some way to decorate wherever we’d hidden. I don’t know where she managed to find a tree most years, but she always did! ‘I have Christmas magic’, she told me. And I believed her every time.

“When our kids came along, she dragged them into it. Taught them the Quran every other month of the year, but come the holidays she’d jump headfirst into Santa and reindeer and elves. I never liked any of it outside of our home, but she… they…” he trailed off with a shaky sigh.

“The ones we... love…” Omen started, haltingly, “... can change the worst of things. Make them liveable.”

The surveillant nodded, swallowing thickly. “They can,” he whispered. “They do.”

In a moment far more human than he should have liked, Omen curled a clawed hand around Cypher’s shoulder, squeezing gently.

“I thought—there isn’t a way, but the Protocol told me—and then—“

The wraith dug his claws in slightly, enough to command some presence. “You can’t get them back, Aamir. They are gone.”

A rattling sigh was smothered by the press of the quilt around Cypher’s mouth. “Give me the dream,” he begged, reverently, like a prayer. “Let me keep her magic. What else can I hold on to now, when the only thing in front of me that I want won’t let me close?”

They sat in silence, for a moment. The fireplace spat a puff of embers, the clock on the wall ticked softly. White noise. Inconsequential little pieces of evidence that the seconds were still passing. It was odd to Omen, that white noise was more grounding than the entire human in his lap.

“I’m sorry,” Cypher whispered barely above a breath.

“I know.”

“Does it bother you?”

Omen turned enough to look at the Moroccan out of his periphery. “Would my answer stop you?”

For once the mask did hide Cypher’s face well enough, and Omen found himself oddly wanting to see the man underneath. “... No,” he admitted. “It wouldn’t.”

“It’s fine, then.” If he still had a human mouth, perhaps it would have gone dry.

A bitter, humorless laugh snuck from under Cypher’s mask. “You’re going to deny this ever happened, aren’t you?”

Omen didn’t answer, suddenly grateful that he no longer had circulation in his legs to lose. The Moroccan was not light.

As if sensing this, Cypher wiggled, fighting the weight of his drunken limbs to move out of the chair. “Sorry, sorry, we had a deal—“

“Stay,” the wraith commanded.

Cypher dropped back into the seat, the lights of his eyes wide with shock.

“... You’re too drunk to move anywhere without hurting yourself or someone else. We _have_ a deal.”

Perhaps Cypher was afraid to say anything for fear of changing Omen’s mind. Maybe he couldn’t find the right words through the haze of alcohol. As the man settled against his comrade once again, Omen felt that same tranquil silence ease over them both like a blanket of falling snow. And it stayed, even after Cypher’s breathing evened out into something suspiciously like sleep.

Omen let his head gently drop down to rest against Cypher’s, and at that moment realized just how close he had come to speaking from the heart.

**Author's Note:**

> ok so I know I said ITU was gonna update next but hear me out:  
> *throws glitter and runs*
> 
> Cypher/Omen isn't my ship but yall asked and tbh I see the appeal so come get yalls juice


End file.
